I am not one to believe that God has a single, narrowly defined, predetermined plan for me. An outline, yes: My life is purposeful, that purpose divinely given. But a three-act script complete with stage directions and lighting cues? No. (Because...if there were but one possible path...then a solitary minor mistake, one fork in the road poorly chosen, would mean all is lost...right?)
I prefer to think that there are infinite possibilities (good possibilities) for my life, an entire network of paths laid out before me. This web of opportunities isn't static, the landscape ever changes--as I change, as I make choices, and as the effects of others' choices ripple through the Universe. Doors (and windows) open and close. Experiences come and go. What matters is that my travels bring me closer to God.
Enough with the mixed metaphors, I know. I mean only to give you (an oversimplified) (and vague, because it's vague to me) idea of how I tend to view life.
Despite my tendency to believe God is generally not a micro-manager (except in cases like stinky carpet), I do know that He does occasionally make His will known about very specific matters. That's when He speaks.
Like last summer. When He told me to have a baby. But you already know that, and if you didn't, you can read about it now.
What you probably didn't know is that He also told us we should try to move to San Antonio. I resisted that one almost as much as I first resisted having a baby. It's a pride thing. Since I was but a wee toddler I have said, "I will never live in Texas." How could I move there--on purpose?! (By the way, it was my parents who trained me to never live in Texas--or California--and you can see where that got them.) But you sure as heck don't win by fighting God's will, even when Texas is involved. So I gave in...and Greg put the Major Command Center in San Antonio at the top of his application for staff jobs. And I knew he would get that job.
Suddenly, the future wasn't a fuzzy web of multiple possibilities. I could see it laid out clearly before my eyes. Oh, how I love clarity. (What comfort to my soul!) A move to San Antonio in early summer. A new house. (We would buy a house!) A nice, boring suburban neighborhood with good schools and lots of kids. And a handful of dear friends who already live/would soon live in San Antonio too. (A ready-made support network!) Then a baby late summer. (Born at Wilford Hall--what a relief to not have to try to find an OB during the last trimester.) And lots of visits from grandparents--all four of them just 5 hours away. Sure, Greg would deploy. But I would have that neighborhood of little kids and the support of dear friends and a mere 5-hour drive to my parents' doorstep. (I would be okay, right? Isn't that why God wanted us to go to San Antonio?) I could picture it all. And I liked the picture I saw.
Then, about the time I miscarried (I can't say for certain that it happened simultaneously), the screen went blank.
I like to write silly (and not-so-silly) predictions about the coming year to stuff in my stocking just before we put our Christmas decorations back in storage. I remember, at the beginning of last January, staring at the paper. I could not make any predictions. Even though we still had the same plan (get pregnant--again--and move to San Antonio), it didn't feel right anymore. It made me physically ill to write "San Antonio" or "baby." How could what had felt so right just a month before now feel so wrong?
The future wasn't fuzzy: it was black.
With that, I will click on the orange "publish" button. I leave you (and myself) with promises to write more this weekend.
